


Outside the Window

by pqlaertes



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: F/M, imaginary sex, some things never happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pqlaertes/pseuds/pqlaertes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not making love.<br/>1997 Nominee FKFF award<br/>1998 Winner FKFF award</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside the Window

Some things never happen

He did not walk into the dark room at four in the morning when she had been sleeping for hours. His clothes, warm cocoon against Toronto night, did not slough off in layers like snake skin, leaving him finally naked and pale standing by her bed. The flannel sheets may have been soft, and warm from her sleeping in them, but he never felt them, crawled into them, felt the heady tenderness of sliding beside her. His mouth did not open, moving over her shoulder and jaw and breathing "Nat?" into her ear so that she woke.

He stands on air outside her bedroom window, winter wind maddening in his hair

As her fingers were never in his hair, tangling there as she kissed him soft and hot and deep before she was even fully awake. Her own hair and her breasts were soft, but he never rolled to his back to pull her onto him and feel their touch, breathing in the scent of her skin.

Inside she turns in her sleep, making a tiny sound that he hears with sharp ears meant to hear prey, the sounds of running and hearts beating.

Her heart beat, raced, never, as he tasted her nipple, never, and felt her hands, never stroking, tracing patterns that never were on his thighs.

Fangs begin to sharpen and grow as he tortures himself with these thoughts. He feels the tightening, the tremble. Would Janette be there if he looked for her tonight? Would she see through him, as she always does, and laugh at him?

As Nat never laughed, kissing his chest, as they rolled and wrestled a little. His mouth has never covered with heat the little scar-place that is not on her thigh, the sweet place the tip of a fang has never scratched to loosen just a little trickle of her racing blood into his hot mouth, making her cry out and writhe, never.

Eyes close tight and jaw clenches in shame. He must not think these thoughts about her. He must not want this. Want her blood.

Wanting the slick heat of her, as it has never been on his fingers. Wanting his name soft as she has never moaned it, sitting up to caress him, making him groan and tremble against her hands as he never has.

The thoughts have gone past what he wants to think again, and he curses his body's betrayal. His body's desire. All he wanted was to hold her.

Desire growing, not sated, as it was never sated, as it has always grown (The desire is one thing that _is_ ).

Growing into the fingers that did not guide his hard wanting into her. Growing into the perfect, blind movement they did not make together, the soft helpless cries that were really nothing but quiet night and distant sirens. Growing into the sweetness, unknown, and the scratches on his back, unmade and the taste

_no. please no_

the taste untasted but sweet and pure and hot. She has never gasped, never sobbed, never thrust up against him, never given blood and body.

Never whispered his name, falling, flying down into bloodstained flannel and his arms.

As she does whisper, sleeping, a word that might be his name.

The brave crusader grits his teeth against the frustration, the need. He leaves her window, knowing that it will go away, that it will be days or weeks before it overwhelms him, brings him here again. It is a lesson he learned a long time ago, to close his eyes and close down the passion, so she will never see it.

So she smiles and touches him, as she would a tame lion. Unafraid. Never knowing how his thoughts crest over him in great waves of shame and desire, how often her blood has throbbed burning into him, hot and sweet and without the faintest taste of not being there.

 

(quelques choses ne se produisent jamais) 

 

=1995=

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[ Forever Knight Fan Fiction Award  
Adult Historical Vignette  
Nominee 1997  
Winner 1998 ](http://members.aol.com/fkvote/award.htm)

 

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